Day One

Players are a superstitious bunch – golfers are a superstitious bunch. How often have you been out for a Saturday morning knock around your home golf club and the guy you’re playing with - friend or opponent - sifts through the bottom of the bag for a lucky ball marker or certain colour of tee or asks for a certain number on his Pinnacle from the pro shop? Imagine what it's like when you’re on tour and playing for a living. Yeah – pretty insane.

To some it really matters which bay they use to warm up on, whether they practice putting first or after the range, what colour underwear they’re wearing will determine far more than you think – lucky pants don’t just make an appearance at the nightclub I can tell you.

A caddy’s job is to figure this kind of insanity out early on with a player and accept it. It matters to them so it’s best just to go along with it rather than try and change them. We all know it’s garbage but what can you do?

So with her lucky lingerie on (her not you), practice done on the right bay at the right time, and the right breakfast inside them, it’s time for a wander to the tee and a pep talk from yours truly.

Goals are the objective. Players like goals. At this point we slip on the old motivational speaker’s head and remind them what they’re doing, the goals we discussed over a coffee earlier and remind them of the game plan we practiced on the range. It’s an important part of the job and one often overlooked by those who are still considering us simply bag carriers.

Feeling more positive than a balloon freshly rubbed on Grandpa’s Christmas jumper, we step on the first tee and exchange pleasantries with our fellow competitors. The girls swap scorecards as you would do on a Saturday morning medal and once we’ve donned our bibs and talked about the weather and other convivial banter, it’s time to finally get on with it. There's a lot of hanging around in this job - you arrive on Monday and when you finally tee it up on Thursday you'll see a lot of players and caddies chomping at the bit to get on the tee.

Some players get really nervous at this point. Never understood that. It’s just a game of golf. It’s what you do. It’s how you got to this point. You probably hit over a thousand balls a day and all you have to do is hit another one. Simples.

A last-minute reminder of their capabilities and a final semi-sincere offer of good fortune to your fellow playing partners and she’ll stripe one down the middle – hopefully – and you’re off. All the talk and discussion and practice, hopes and dreams have led to this moment so in the words of Eminem in Lose Yourself, “Look, if you had one shot, one opportunity, to seize everything you ever wanted in one moment would you capture it or let it slip? You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow ‘cause opportunity comes once in a lifetime. ”

Too true.

  

Round three Portugal Open 2010

 

After two terrific rounds of 68 and everyone’s favourite number 69 we’re off in the last group on Sunday with Stephania Croce and Sophie Sandolo. Stephania shot two great rounds of 68 and is leading by one over Sophie and Breanne. We’re off at 11am with my mate Scott who loops for Sophie. It should be a good day.

 

I was nervous the night before and wrote a few pointers to remember on the big day tomorrow;

 

Things to do;

 

1. Keep Breanne focussed and relaxed.
2. Keep yourself cool, focussed and relaxed!
3. Keep her cool and entertained throughout the day
4. Maintain her focus on her target and objective above all
5. Ensure she plays her own game at her own pace
6. Ensure she watches her own game and not those around her
7. No scoreboard watching
8. Stare at the flag and visualise shots and target on every tee
9. Don’t interact too much with Scott =’ (
10. Concentrate!
11. Enjoy it!

 

Well what a fucking load a shite that was.

 

After all the mental preparation I did writing the above and memorising a game plan she goes and shoots seven over par and ends up at the back of the field earning me fuck all once again. 

 

I couldn’t sleep last night in nervous anticipation about this morning's round and kept waking up in the middle of the night with butterflies in my stomach thinking about what the day ahead might bring and then she turns up without a clue how to play the game she calls herself a professional at. 

 

A blocked tee shot on the first resulted in a fortunate lie allowing her to go at the green but having seen her chipping from 30yards a lot in the last week I decided we ought to lay up a little further and give her a fuller shot to the back left pin. So she murders a two rescue and leaves herself 36 to the pin - triffic.

 

So a shit pitch later and she’s left with a 25 footer for birdie which she leaves surprise surprise short right.

 

I’m told this morning by Chubblar that on the second I ought to persuade her to go for the same play of three wood off the tee as it would instil a confident feeling in her for the rest of the round. Before I get a chance to mention this she’s plucked the 2-Rescue out the bag and ready to go. In reality it wasn’t a bad play but having been given good advice by a guy I respect as a caddy I thought I might try and talk her into it. Never mind – she knocks the 2-Rescue towards the drink and leaves herself tantalisingly close to a swim. 

 

It’s dry though and a further rescue wood leaves her just off the back of the green with a tricky little chip - that she duffs. Then misses the putt and then I feel like a cunt for not saying what she ought to have done off the tee. One over.

 

A good drive up the next and a pulled approach leaves a tricky chip that she also overplays but thankfully she rattles the 12-foot putt in boosting her confidence on the greens.

 

Then it all goes to shit. Standing on the high fourth tee we agree the 150yard par three with a slight headwind off the right should be a six iron. After a few words of encouragement, she pulls the shit out of the shot and we all gasp in horror as it leaps off the edge of the green and bounds on down the hill into Jurassic Park country. Great.

 

We march off after it and find it nestled nicely under a thistle with a large dandelion tree behind the ball. The hole itself is up the hill and on the back of the green. She attempts to earn a free drop - in vein - and decides she has to play it as it lies. It’s a committed lob wedge and that’s that but she miss-hits it and progresses it five yards or so. Another disappointing chip later and we’re barely on the green with at least 30 feet to the pin. It’s got double bogey written all over it. The putt reaches the hole, which is a start but misses six inches left. Double bogey.

 

Well, a par five follows so all is not lost. I remind her to swing gently and to stay with it – things we’d talked about on the range the evening prior and that morning – but she blocks the shit out of it with no commitment or conviction and it flies a mile right leaving a long way into a hole that ought to be a long par four. 

 

Now it’s playing like a five as we have over 200 yards to the pin. We decide on a 3-Rescue and thankfully she stays with it and it flies to the front edge of the green leaving a chip or a putt for eagle. I’m thinking a lag putt or decent chip with a pitching wedge might leave any decent short-game player a chance for a tap-in birdie but she figures it best to putt. With her chipping ability, it’s the better of the two evils. 

 

She launches the putt with considerable venom and I immediately start saying ‘Sit! Sit!” but it’s moving at a rate of knots and isn’t likely to even stay on the green let alone leave a tap in bird. I look up and she seems quite pleased with it and as it clunks into the flag and drops to within an inch of the hole I understand why.

 

I pray the birdie might settle the good ship Loucks…

 

So a decent knock down the next followed by a good 6-iron to the green and all of a sudden things are looking up. Then she three putts and the positive momentum disappears. We walk off the 6^th feeling a little hard done by but either way if you knock a three-foot putt like you would a ten foot putt what do you expect?

 

She cracks a decent 3-Rescue down the seventh that perks us up and leaves us a perfect easy wedge to an easy flag. Not that easy, unfortunately. Blocked straight right it doesn’t even hit the green - from 106 yards out? Missing the green with a wedge is like missing your mouth with a fork…

 

She’s lying up against a grassy bank with no backswing and a tricky chip with no green to work with. She takes an eternity to play the shot and she leaves it just on the green and about 20-feet away. Somehow she manages to make the putt! Thankfully.

 

The hardest hole on the course follows in the form of a long par three into the wind and with a drop shot looming left and everything played right likely to bounce off the bank across the green into the aforementioned hazard, it doesn’t suit the eye at all. Averaging nearer four than three for the week she stands up and knocks a toe-y five iron onto the green at least.   

 

Reaching just over half the way to the hole the first putt showed less commitment than a pre-nuptial agreement. She rolls the return in thankfully and maintains a little spirit in the camp.

 

Along with the strategy down the second, I also discussed a different strategy down the ninth with Chubblar who confirmed my thoughts. Having shot a 5-yard chip long and one short over the first two days I thought we ought to approach the short par four with a longer approach meaning a shorter club off the tee than a driver. Before I could say, “How about a three woo…” she’s plucked the driver out the bag and woe betide anyone changing her mind at this point.

 

She blocks the granny out of it and I think I see it plummet behind the only tree on the hole leaving not only a tricky chip but discarding any chance of a round-changing birdie. When we get to the ball it’s actually lying ok and made it past the tree in question. With 36 to the flag I’m thinking it’s either fifteen feet short or through the back. The latter it is…

 

She leaves the putt in the jaws as per and we stagger up the hill three over for our round thus far and as we see on the 10^th tee leaderboard some six shots off the pace of the new leaders in front of us.

 

I try in vain to encourage her with a brief pep talk on the tee but still, this seems to fall on deaf ears as her confidence is shot to bits. She blocks the tee shot that she’s nailed all week long and leaves nothing other than a chip out sideways. Finally she creams an iron but comes up a little short on the green having spun back off a downslope - a little unlucky it has to be said. She rolls a decent putt but it’s another dropped shot. 

 

She asks for a new line off the 11^th tee to which - by this time I'm a little over it, you understand – I just agree and line her up to my line anyway. She pulls the shit out of it so much so in fact it’s bordering on a snap hook. It miraculously ends up on my original line and leaves a perfect wedge into the raised green ahead. Gallery awaiting, I give her the perfect yardage and she pulls it once more leaving a tricky and lengthy chip off the bank down the hill to the back pin. Nearly duffing the chip once more (she gotta work on that aspect of her game…) the ball falls lazily onto the green and rolls to about ten feet. Recalling, thanks to me, her efforts from the day before, she rattles the par putt in and we walk away happy as you can be after a shit par. 

 

She finally nails one off the tee with the driver on the 12^th to much relief and sets up a fairly easy approach to the raised green ahead. Unfortunately nothing is happening for her today and although I’m really negged out by this stage I start to feel really sorry for Breanne. 

 

She pulls another simple 8iron leaving a pin-high but long birdie putt which, you’ve guessed, falls short and right.

 

I’m beginning to run out of patience and words of encouragement by this stage and decide that silence is the route. We’re slipping so far out of contention now I start wondering whether we’ll end up propping up the rear of the field as we did last week in Switzerland. 

 

After a reasonable tee shot followed by yet another pulled approach resulting in yet another bogey, I am proper negged out. I’m amazed how variable the mind can be in this stupid game. Last night I hardly slept a wink, as I was so excited about the day ahead. Thinking about what I’d spend the £3000 on that she’d win for me. How pleased I’ll be when she taps in for birdie on the 18^th and we embrace each other in a well-earned victory. The emotions that would come out of nowhere after a long battle out on the course. The jubilation; the stresses; the relief; the satisfaction; the happiness; the fear; the joy all rolled into one glorious moment… and here am after 14 and a half holes close to tears and wishing we could just walk off the course immediately without seeing or speaking to anyone. Get in a car to the airport without having to make eye contact with anyone I know so well out here and just grab a bag of essentials and take off into the great unknown by myself without ever having to communicate with anyone who knows me ever again. 

 

What the fuck?

 

I can tell Breanne feels the same way so whilst we have a sizeable delay ahead of us on the 17^th tee, she asks for a little time away from everyone. I consider leaving her to it but think twice and think it’s probably time we had a chat. Well, to get things off her chest anyway. Without a prompt from her faithful caddy, she starts voicing all the feelings I have addressed above. She tells me of her fears of what her coach, family, friends and fellow players all of whom would have wished her the best of luck this morning would be thinking as they scroll through the leaderboard after her name. They would inevitably, by this stage have scrolled down a few pages to find her languishing somewhere mid-table – disappointing having started one shot off the lead. 

 

Our little chat seems to perk her up no end and as we climb the hill to the 17^th tee, she thanks me for it and asks, rhetorically why she didn’t talk to me earlier. She duly cracks one straight down the middle with by far her best swing of the day. A further wait allows us to chat some more and resolve a few issues that found their way into her head. 

 

Even in my fairly understated life, I find it occasionally stressful to be me. Might sound daft I know as I don’t really have any responsibilities at all but every now and then when things aren’t going my way I slip into negative mode and the pressure of achieving the things my parents and friends might have once hoped I would resonate so much in my head that I find it quite hard to cope. 

 

On a grander scale, young Breanne has the hopes of a golfing nation on her shoulders to deal with. Wales has half a dozen or so professional women golfers but only Becky Brewerton is ahead of her on the order of merit. And with her unique style, beauty and upbeat, attractive manner, there are dozens of companies wanting a slice of the young Welsh golfer. When they see that she is one shot of the lead after days one and two they must be anxious to see what she can do in the final round and what happens. Chokes to death, the poor thing.

 

So I feel for her. I really do. I can’t imagine the pressure she’s under to perform and probably never will. 

 

She pops the approach on 17 to within 20 feet and skims the hole for eagle. That’d have sorted her out for sure. She lips out on the last for birdie too leaving us level par for the tournament and carding a closing 79. Shame. A real shame.

 

When our playing partners have finished putting out Breanne comes up to me and I’m not sure what’s going to happen. Being a caddy is a fairly dire job on days like this and when the chips are down and everything you say to encourage her to play the way she can you can’t help wondering if you’ll still have a job at the end of the day. So over she comes to give me a routine hug on the 18^th green and instead of the usual quick embrace and a thank you she hugs me far longer than ever before and apologises in my ear promising to play better the following week in Tenerife. She thanks me for talking to her and that she loves me to bits. Bless her. 

 

I walk off the green welling up a little I must be honest.

 

On to Tenerife it is…

 

Fucking job. 

 

 

 I hate this f*cking country 

Many moons ago I was down the youth club doing youth things when the subject of politics arose. 

My good friend Sarah looked ever so down. I couldn't understand why. We were 15years old. Why would she be upset about a looming election? I didn't really understand who was running for it and what policies they had and arrogantly assumed she didn’t either. 

It was only when I confronted her and asked what the issue was that she told me something that has forever stuck in my mind. A statement that has rattled around my head for 30years or more and if I'm honest hasn't helped my outlook. 

“It doesn't matter who gets into power, Chris they’ll always be in charge of us.” 

As a first year student of anarchy, this didn't bode well. 

So it began my never-ending thought train of life and power and government and the principles it ought to bring with it. 

The idea of a government is to govern, right? To oversee its electorate. The people who voted them into power; to govern. Under a modern-day - Western if you like - democracy there is a written agreement between the government and its people called a mandate, to uphold the policies and promises it won its power with throughout the term. 

Sarah’s initial fears - that shortly after became mine - were that once in power these people who’ve been traipsing the streets of the UK begging for your votes could, once in No.10 sit back and do naff all. And then laugh at us. They’ve no need to actually fulfil their facile policies but now have access to one of the world’s largest chequebooks with no one to scrutinise its use. 

It’s them versus us. 

And the older I get the more I see a bigger divide. 

The thought process of this one statement and years struggling to comprehend the principles of governance have led me to my very own statement; 

The people who get into power are governed by those who want to retain it. 

Right now there is a massive financial crisis in the UK and the plight of the British people is everywhere. Turn on your TV or radio and you’ll hear Martha from Widnes telling you about having to wear her dead mother’s underwear as she can’t afford her own. Jane in Dagenham works a 60-hour week to put food on the table for her three kids. Then, once they are out of the kitchen, she has a bowl of Aldi own brand Weetabix for her tea. With water as milk is too dear. Ethel in Eastleigh is doing 50 hours a week cleaning. She gets up in the dark at 4 a.m. and cleans until it’s dark again. Just to get by. She’s 65. 

All the while we have a conservative government that can’t decide who they want to lead the party. The reason they can’t choose is because they've run out of people who want the job. Genuinely want the job. Genuinely want the job because they want to make a difference to Ethel, Jane and Martha. 

For too long now we've had leaders whose primary interest is power. 

Boris Johnson only ever wanted to be in No.10. He considered it his god-given right to be Prime Minister. He lied and cheated his way to the top and once there, floundered his power to the point he was the first PM in my memory to be forcefully evicted from Downing Street - by his own party. 

The principles of Conservatism are clear in the first seven letters: CONSERV(E). ie to preserve the status quo.

You only have to look at Jacob Rees Mogg - the Minister for the 17th century - to see exactly how it is put into practice. Every time there’s a problem within the conservative party - daily it seems - they wheel him out across the television networks to condescend to the masses in a style only he can perform. 

Talking with a plum in his mouth and being over six foot tall he can look down his nose at any reporter he likes and patronise them in his croaky fashion regardless of the subject matter or question asked.  

He is the epitome of everything that is wrong with this country. He’s made his money and wants to keep it. He will do whatever he can to preserve his wealth and therefore his power. 

Brexit was the perfect notion for a man like JRM. Get rid of all the grubby foreigners so we can keep all our money here in the UK and more importantly in his account. Break ties with the European Union so that he doesn't have to pay any tax on his offshore accounts. 

If he had it his way he’d bring back hanging, flogging and send ships around the world colonising developing countries again. Ramming the idea of tea and “the British way” down the throats of ancient tribes of Papua New Guinea. 

Sadly, my dreams of an anarchic society aren't likely to happen now. Or ever for that matter. But something has to change.

Modernising the immortal words of Sarah, even if Kier Starmer and the Labour Party succeed in coming to power, nothing will change that much. Anything has to be better than the Tories but essentially another party will enter into power and have the same quandary staring them in the face. 

That quandary is: how do we keep the British public happy AND the 1% who have all the money and therefore the power?

In other words, once again it doesn’t matter who is in power the same problems are there. Starmer can carry on all he likes about saving the NHS and levelling up the country but once in power, he’ll have the exact same problem the Tories have; of keeping the wealthy wealthy and the powerful powerful. 

In my pea brain, the money is in the wrong place. 

If your company is turning over £100m a year and after all outgoings, wages, expenses and taxes, you look into your account and see £25m in profits, you’re charging too much for whatever it is that you do. 

I have ongoing arguments with wealthy friends of mine who are always going to be Tory voters. Regardless of the perils of Brexit and the state of the party and country at the moment, they will always vote conservative because they will always look after the wealthy. 

Some friends have spoken about losing £100,000 a year after Brexit and are STILL convinced it’s for the best.  When you question them on it they simply say. “We could've had Jeremy Corbyn.”

One of the reasons we are where we are is because Labour and Corbyn didn't put up much of a fight at the last election. They sat on the fence when it came to Brexit, still not convinced if it was a good idea or not. In the three years that had passed since the referendum we’d learned a lot - well I had - had you posed the Brexit question again I guarantee the swing would've been 60/40 to remain and yet Labour didn't cash in on that. They simply sat there and said they’d do whatever the British People wanted. Weak as piss. 

Three years on and we have Sir Kier Starmer continuing the Labour party’s stance and sitting on the fence. Deciding instead to run the notion of, “Making Brexit work”. A theory we all know won’t. 

It leaves me politically homeless and exasperated and as I invariably fall on the flight mode of the old expression, I now actually have nowhere to run to. My go-to escape when things got tough in the UK would always be my second home in the French Alps. I can’t just go and live there for a year or two anymore. I am stuck in the UK. And hate it. 

In an attempt to pander to those who didn't want to see brown people in Asda anymore, this government has not only removed freedom of movement from the workforce it so desperately misses and won’t admit to, but even its own people can’t live in Europe anymore.

The freedoms I once had to travel around Europe as free as a bird in the 90s have been stripped for future generations. When I decided to go and spend a ski season in the Alps, I could. I loved it so much I decided to move there. I didn’t even need to ask anyone. I just bought a van, loaded up and went.    

That freedom has been taken away from the next generation and likely the next. All of those people who wanted to retire to Spain, wallpaper their villa in Alicante and watch daytime UK telly, now can’t. They're stuck in Runcorn until the day they die with an ailing NHS that they've helped fund all their lives that, thanks to this lot won’t be there for them. 

This government should be not only ashamed of what they've done to this country but put on trial for it. Starting with Boris Johnson. 

 Brace yourselves...

I’ve been meaning to write this for some time.

After last night’s no-confidence vote which saw our hapless leader secure his position as this once fine country’s prime minister, I was more compelled to get this off my chest than ever.

I’m a huge sports fan. Love sport. Follow and listen to a lot of sport-based radio. I follow a couple of football teams, have numerous golfers whose careers I follow with interest and can happily watch or listen to any old waffle regarding the sporting achievements of, well frankly anyone doing anything of any merit in any sport.

I’ve always followed the England football team more than most.

Until recently.

The disappointment of England losing the first major final in 60 years on penalties last year was hard to take. With little to get excited about during a summer without domestic football, I became rather invested in Euro 2021. Five years in the making, thanks to Covid, England had made decent headway under Gareth Southgate’s tenure as manager and were tipped for greatness.

'It’s Coming Home' was played frenetically throughout the tournament exciting even the biggest football skeptic. Car horns were blaring and the old familiar, if slightly maligned St George flag was everywhere as we made our way with ease through the tournament.

Leading up to the final, I had various sports radio stations on for 12 hours a day. People I spoke to in shops would walk by and mutter 'it’s comin’ ‘ome'. The pressure was on. I was excited - scared - thinking that for once in my life I wouldn’t have to spout my usual, specifically coined expression for an England result, “It’s the disappointing inevitability that makes it so inevitably disappointing”. or "It's the inevitable disappointment that makes it so disappointingly inevitable.

Alas, I may as well have had a t-shirt made up with it emblazoned front and back as we very narrowly missed out on the first trophy in over half a century on the final kick of the tournament.

I stormed out of my sister's house livid. I’d invested a lot of time and energy into this and I had nothing, NOTHING to show for my dedicated support.

It’s now 7pm the day after a parliamentary vote of no confidence, England is playing Germany in 45 mins and I couldn’t give a shit.

Boris fucking Johnson has once again wormed his way out of a potentially career-threatening fiasco and, via 211 pitiful party members thinking solely about their own political agenda rather than, as they ought, their constituents and this country, he somehow remains Prime Minister. And potentially for another two years.

Germany is our biggest rival. Throughout history on and off the pitch, England and Germany have fought it out for numerous prizes. We probably share the spoils. For the sake of balance and peace, let’s not delve too deep into that.

How has this toe rag, Johnson ended up in charge of this once great nation? It’s been a cacophony of lies, deceit, cheating, proroguing and worst of all, sniggering at ‘us’ the public, whom HE works for as he slips and slides his way through all of it, coming out the other side with a majority vote.

He has one agenda; himself.

As narcissists go I’d put him one step, and a small one at that, behind Donald Trump. That, I can assure you, Boris is no accolade or compliment.

Through the actions of this one ‘man’, I no longer like, let alone love this country I have called home for 40-odd years.

I am not proud to tell anyone I am English.

I spend a lot of time in France. Thanks to the farce that is Johnson’s Brexit, the people I know and meet across the channel laugh and shake their heads at me.

As soon as I begin my drive back from France and near Calais, I begin to get stressed. Once in the UK I immediately feel anxious and agitated. There’s a queue 20 miles long for lorries to get over the channel. The M20 is ruined. Dover is on its arse. The roads are shit. The shelves are empty, fuel prices are through the roof, the NHS is fucked, we’re at 12% inflation and the rest of the world thinks we’re mad.

And it’s all Boris Johnson’s fault.

Through his lies, corruption, deceit, philandering and conniving with morals and integrity as low as we've seen in any one man this side of the Second World War, I hate this country and when once upon a time I relished the notion of watching my England football team play Germany, I now couldn’t care less.

Thank you, Boris. Thanks for ruining this once great country.

BRIGHTON HALF MARATHON 2020

I hate running. 

There. I said it.

On December 2019 I received news that my step dad’s cancer had returned. We had no firm diagnosis at this point but with my mum not being very well at present either, I knew one thing; I couldn’t possibly go to the Alps this winter. 

I have been going to my second home, Châtel in Haute Savoie for nine years now and was very much looking forward to passing the inevitably dreadful UK winter hanging out with friends and playing in the snow. 

A few days after we received this news, mum wasn’t taking it well. She has become rather unstable of late and the thought of leaving her to help Roger through the early stages of chemotherapy whilst I galavanted around the French Alps, wasn’t sitting well with me.   

I made the decision there and then to move in to my old bedroom and keep an eye on them both.

A few days later I tag-teamed a temporary tenant for my flat in Brighton and moved my gear into the garage at mum’s. My Superman duvet was dragged out of the airing cupboard, popped on the bed and it was like old times. 

It was only during the festive season that I decided I’d need a goal to, not only get me through the impending British winter but living with my parents again aged 46. 

I was dining with my good friend Ben when he mentioned he was running the Brighton Half Marathon on 23rd February. “Perfect.” I said, with instant regret. 

I have never liked running. I generally detest every step. Never known why. Back in my youth I could run all day chasing a football around a pitch but since then I have chosen golf and dog walking as pastimes and only the occasional bike ride raises the old heart rate. 

Every now and then I’ll grab the mutt and run around the park but I’d only ever do 5kms and generally counted down the inches until the 5k bell went on my phone’s app. Some weekends I’ll do a 5k Park Run but I rarely enjoy it. Running, you’ll have ascertained, has never really been my thing. 

A couple of years ago I glimpsed at some photos of me on the beach and decided I needed some exercise that didn’t involve walking to the pub. I made a pact with myself that I’d run 5k every day in August. 

August. Hottest month of the year. What an idiot. 

I managed 20 runs in 20days and was quite proud of that but I had two runs on the trot on days 21 and 22 where I suddenly had concrete boots on. I had nothing in the tank at all. Legs didn’t want to move an inch. I called up a very fit, triathlete friend of mine who explained that it happened to the best of them but that still didn’t appease a massive failure in my eyes. 

Since then I haven’t done much running.  

The 2019 festive period came and went and then an email hit my inbox reminding me that the Brighton Half Marathon was eight weeks away. The furthest I’d ever run was 10kms. I was expected to exceed 21 in two months' time. 

January is a dreadful month in the UK and one of the reasons I have spent the last decade in the French mountains. I had to keep busy and focused or I’d inevitably find an excuse not to do the run or feign injury through a poor training regime. I had a decent incentive to encourage me though; I had the choice between supping sherry with the folks whilst they watched The Last of the Summer Wine or get running. 

I chose option b. 

Not one for taking things too leisurely, I began hard with a 10km run down the river from Weybridge. It went ok. Banged it out in under an hour which, bearing in mind the UK has undergone a monsoon since about October making the towpath a hazardous bog at best, was a pretty tidy time.  

I washed this one down with a couple of 5k trots both of which sparked up a recurring calf injury which comes on abruptly and forces me to pull up immediately. It’s a sharp, acute pain and is usually the result of a poor warm up, or so I’m told. 

My good friend, seasoned athlete and master physiotherapist, Ben insisted I hadn’t taken into consideration the inclement winter temperatures, and he’d be right. I haven’t ever really stretched before a run as I like to walk for a kilometre or so before setting off on a trot. He also ran a theory past me once that if you leave a piece of steak hanging on a hook in the garage for three months, the fibres rarely stretch a millimetre, so what will yanking your heel up to your backside for ten seconds achieve? A fair point from a man with a lot of muscular knowledge. 

Ben also suggested, rather hypocritically it seemed, that I warm up throughout the day by doing calf raises and stretching the affected calf - and all the leg muscles really - before I embarked on any length run. This seemed to make sense to me. So I did. 

After a day’s rest and lots of stretching, I set myself a distance target and stuck to it. I set my target to 12.5kms which was to run as far as I’d ever run before. A bit like Sam in Lord Of The Rings when he passes the point from his house that he’s never been past. Off I went down the tow path once more at a leisurely pace to protect the calf. 

I hit the 6.25km mark and swung around on my heels. Trotting back I felt fine. My Map My Ride App was enlightening me to my pace every kilometre and I was plodding along at a hardly blistering 5.40minutes per kilometre but exactly the time I would need to finish the half marathon in two hours. All good. 

It was only when a rather attractive girl in her 20s with a blonde pony tail dancing from side to side effortlessly sauntered past me with two clicks to go, that my pathetic male ego decided to prove its worth. I stepped up a gear and within metres blew my calf muscle before the lucky girl saw a bald, middle aged man dragging his left leg behind him, like Keyser Söze. 

Back to square one then. 

I gave it more than a week to heal, combined with lot of calf raises and stretching in which time I thought it wise to join the nearest gym to the folk’s pad. Bannatyne’s is a rather lavish health club on the plains of lower Weybridge and was offering a discounted month by month membership. 

It was another way to avoid swinging by the Old Crown on the way back from my evening dog walk and yet another way to avoid sitting in the lounge whilst the fire is on full whack and the boiler doing its best to keep the room at the seemingly necessary 40+ degrees my mother insists is still too chilly, whilst shivering under a 70 TOG duvet. 

I began hitting the treadmill again doing what my girlfriend Lisa refers to as the “Brownlee Shuffle”. The Brownlee brothers are arguably the world’s greatest triathletes and apparently it is well observed that they tend to ‘shuffle’ during their torturous final leg marathons rather than run, such as Kipchoge. 

This shuffle enabled me to get a few more 5kms runs on the chart but running on a treadmill regardless of how many videos, podcasts or radio shows keep you company still isn’t as interesting as plodding along the ever changing view of a tow path. Thankfully the 20m pool, sauna, steam and jacuzzi afterwards make up for the tedium.

By the end of January I’d amassed a decent Map My Ride total of 70kms running and 100kms walking the dog - no wonder he sleeps well. The calf was tender but manageable.

I felt good. I’d lost a few pounds and with three weeks to go knew I’d make the distance on the day itself. I was almost beginning to enjoy running which was a rare feeling. There have been possibly two occasions during my running ‘career’ when I have thought to myself, “This is fun…” Every other time has been tedious at best.

Having set the target distance and chosen a particularly good podcast to listen to, I squeezed a 15km run in. I ran from Weybridge to Hampton Court Bridge and back and, bar a wobble at the 12-14km mark, I actually quite enjoyed it. 

It opened my mind up to keeping myself entertained aurally. Up until this point I had been listening to the radio or a Spotify playlist. I have even tried to run to a specific beats per minute playlist. It works. It really does. A particular tune that is bang on my rhythm is ZZ Top’s Sinpusher. Spot on it is. Sadly, playing that for an hour and a half wasn’t going to cut it. I need something mentally stimulating to keep my mind from saying to the rest of me, “F*ck this…” 

I have always been a fan of personal development podcasts and chose, on this occasion to listen to a book by a guy I am a massive fan of. He’s an entrepreneur from the US called James Altucher. I shan’t go into too much detail about him only to say, as a guy who is my age he’s been there and done it. He’s highly intelligent, has made and lost millions which makes him genuine. He’s written dozens of books, most of which are excellent and is a recognised chess master. A rare achievement. With his dulcet New York tones and laid back delivery, his podcasts make for fascinating listening. 

Altucher’s book, "Choose Yourself” is extremely enlightening. I have enjoyed listening to it for a few runs now. I finished it right on cue as I was crossing the 15km mark, without it I’d still be walking back through Walton on Thames.

The best run I had was last week when Storm Ciara made an unwelcome appearance to the shores of the UK. She was lashing it down and offering up winds that even topple plastic garden furniture; you know the kind. It was Saturday afternoon and I’d been asked to go to the pub and watch the rugby with the folks. It was tempting but I had pencilled in a run for this afternoon and knew I had to do it. Part of the training was knowing when to commit yourself to something and follow it through. This was one of those times.  

Running in the wind and rain I am ok with. Running into the wind and rain I am not. A check on my weather app told me I could drive out to Hampton Court and then run west into the wind on the first 5km returning with the wind assisting me eastwards to finish off. 

Regardless of this research the rain was sideways. I had strong winds - a hurricane it transpires - battering my left side running up river and on the right on the way back. With a podcast from Altucher keeping my mind busy, I was actually having a ball. I love extreme weather. Love it. In the right gear I’ll go walking up the mountains with the mutt in any weather the French Alps offer. Today was proper extreme. 

The podcast was an in-depth interview with Gary Kasparov who, I didn’t know is more than a 20year world chess champion. His knowledge of Russian politics is second to none and his hour long accusations of the dodgy dealings between Vladimir Putin and Donald Trump kept a socialist like me entertained throughout the relentlessly horrific conditions. 

I was wearing a soft-shell jacket, baseball cap, gore-tex trail running shoes and mountain bike gloves. The dog was doing his usual tearing about but as always he’s in my view and living the dream. He loves a run. Whenever I lock the van and we start to run he goes nuts. Never will you see an eight year old mini retriever look so happy to be going out in a monsoon for a 10k run.   

Before long, my knowledge of Russian politics had surpassed my expectations, 10,000metres had elapsed and I was done. I was soaked through but dead proud to have made the effort to go out in that weather and was rewarded with one of my first ever “fun” runs. Two words I have never thought should appear next to each other.   

With less than two weeks to go I knew I had to up the distance and on Tuesday morning embarked on my longest ever run. I headed out of Hampton Court and, having designed a run on Map My Ride knew if I followed the river road on the north side I’d get to Walton Bridge after 10kms and then I’d have a downhill, wind assisted seven kilometres home to wrap up my training. It wasn’t easy but I didn’t stop. Well, only once for a pee. Otherwise I ran for 1hr 37mins and banged out 17kms. I averaged 5min 38s per kilometre too. With that pace I ought to finish the half marathon in less than two hours. 

Training going well. 

With a few days to go I hit the gym a few times and plodded out a few gentle 5k-ers then decided to take it easy on Saturday before the big run. The weather was ok that morning so I grabbed the mutt and took him around the island on the river. All was going swimmingly until he heard a big bang across the river and he was gone. Gone. Nothing stops him when he’s spooked and all I saw was his fluffy beige tail dancing across the fields towards my mum’s place. 

I was wearing heavy wellies and the ground underfoot was not conducive to running. He’s done this a few times in his life and invariably ends up pining at the back door to get away from whatever he thought he heard. I imagine it takes him to a past life when he was in ‘Nam…. Dagenh'am.

I didn’t worry too much and plodded home not wishing to up the tempo too much for fear of injury. When I got home some fifteen minutes later he wasn’t there. Mum and Roj hadn’t seen him either. I told Roj to put his sarnie back in the fridge and we headed out to have a look for the little fella. 

Nowhere to be seen. I know his homing skills are pretty good and when he’s scared he’s just gonna come home. But with him not being home I was getting worried. Your mind starts racing at these times and thinking of all the awful things that could be happening to him right now. Stupid things like; he’s been mauled by a Rottweiler; fallen in the river; been abducted by someone wishing to have a very cute pup locked in the front room with them at all times. 

I’ve said from the day I got him that I’d genuinely rather watch him get run over by a bus than not know where he is. We’ve a tight bond as man and dog tend to but anyone who knows us will tell you ours is particularly deep. I call him ‘My Boy’ which will give you an idea. I’ve a few friends, in fact who are already dreading the day he’s no longer here for fear I’ll go a bit loopy and ‘do a Leaving Las Vegas’…  

Having circumnavigated the river several times, Roj said he’d go home and wait there. I grabbed the bike and went out again. I don’t really know what I was looking for. I knew he wouldn’t be raiding bins or chasing squirrels an hour and a half after losing me. He’d be as panicky as me by now. 

Half an hour covering 10k on the bike came up with nothing. I came home and seeing there was no fluffy mini retriever to greet me, I burst into tears. Life without him crossed my mind and I was off. Not willing to give up I called Ben, my running mentor and told him tomorrow’s half marathon was off. He understood, as anyone would. 

It was only when I was chatting to my girlfriend that I remembered I was a member of a Facebook community hub group thing around Weybridge and figured I could post something on there. 

I put a heart felt message saying, 

‘Hi guys, 

I’ve lost my dog. 

Lost him at midday today on Desborough Island. 

He heard a bang and ran home to Montrose Walk but never made it. 

I’m sure someone would have taken him as he didn’t have his collar on.
Hopefully just to care not abduct 😔
Please help - he’s everything to me.’

As I finished writing this tear jerking message I clicked ‘post’ and then I saw some photos of my dog! He was staring/posing into the camera with a message underneath saying, ‘Dog found on Thames Street without a tag or collar on. Does anyone recognise him?’ 

I immediately replied saying, ‘He’s mine! Please call me on 0796… ‘

A few minutes later I walked in the door and the phone rang from a very softly spoken gentleman saying he believed he may have my dog at his veterinary surgery up the road. 

My little heart beat a rhythm of utter elation. 

I told Roj and he jumped up and started walking towards the car. We arrived at the vet and Chewy was nigh on licking the window in anticipation of seeing daddy again. We embraced so hard I am pretty sure he weed on me. Relief doesn’t come close to describing the emotion. I have always admitted to loving that bloody dog too much but today just confirmed it. 

Must buy a collar and a tag. 

I called Ben and told him the good news. He was not only pleased that I’d found my precious pooch but equally that I was still going to do the run tomorrow. 

After a tearful farewell to the dog again, Roj dropped me at the station and I boarded the train almost immediately. Whilst I was sat there en route to Clapham Junction I looked up ‘Six things you should do before a half marathon.’

Amongst the six things were; 

Don't stress. 

Take it easy.

Plan ahead.

Hydrate - a lot

Remember your race pack.

Stay off your feet. 

I was on a train from Weybridge to Brighton via London having lost my dog for two hours, run, walked and cycled a lot, was late for the train, I’d hardly drunk a drop of water all day, forgotten my race pack and was having to stand all the way because they’d cancelled the previous train. 

Training not going well.

I arrived at Ben’s and was treated to a fine feast, herbal tea and then an early night. 

Slept like a baby.

Woke up fresh as a daisy.

After a monumental faff we arrived on the start line with a new race number pinned on, trainers done up, new cap on, ready to go. The only damper was the relentless drizzle and sea mist streaming in off the English Channel. That wasn’t going to stop 5000 runners keen to get it done though. 

There’s always a wait with these things and we all hopped up and down and did our final stretches before being let free from our time designated pens. I’d chosen a yellow pen in the hope I’d run 13.1miles in under two hours. Seemed doable. 

As I crossed the start/finish line I hit Start on my app and off we went. 

I was told it might be a fast pace… and it was. As we climbed up from Madeira Drive the wind hit our backs and helped us up towards Rottingdean. It wasn’t long before the phone strapped to my arm announced in its rather irritating nasal but comfortingly American monotone, “Distance; one kilometre. Pace; 5 minutes 19 seconds per kilometre.”

This was way faster than I’d planned and yet almost everyone was overtaking me. I wasn’t sure whether to alter my pace or trust my app. It had been good to me throughout the training but it was terribly demoralising seeing most of the field coming pass you at a leisurely pace. Especially those who would seem to be more comfortable eating ice cream and watching Netflix. What a bitch. 

I made a conscious decision to trust my app and I am very glad I did. With the calf issues I’d been having all year hampering my confidence, I just wanted to get the race finished and the time would be secondary. 

By the time we reached the hairpin just past the Marina, I’d heard two more announcements from my bellowing bicep both telling me the pace was 5.20mins/km. Too fast. Ben has told me that once you’ve done 3-5kms your muscles know what they’re doing and oughtn’t fail you now. I’d done that at a pace I wasn’t familiar with but was somehow still feeling ok. 

As soon as we headed back into the harsh February wind, my brand new cap flew off my head and disappeared over the white cliffs and into the sea. Triffic. At this point every runner in the field knew we had a long hard slog out to the lagoon some 10kms away into the wind and steady rain. The wind was so strong, there were times when you were running and not actually moving. What with my fetish for extreme weather I was particularly enjoying it. This was extreme. So extreme for your first ever organised distance run that all I could do was laugh. 

We reached Harry Ramsden’s by the Brighton Pier and swung up the Steyne. The crowds were huge. Far bigger than I’d imagined on a dreadful day in February but they were cheering us all on with the kind of enthusiasm I love about Brighton folk. The swirling wind took us up to the Level and then back into the fan towards the pier again. I was fading a little at this point and needed water. I ditched my rather knackered old running top and right on cue a table of volunteers passing out cups of water and jelly babies arrived and within seconds I was brand new again. 

We swung back in the headwind of the seafront and then it was head down all the way to the lagoon. The only respite was the parade of shops in Hove sheltering us from the best the winter weather could throw at us. From the end of the King Alfred Leisure Centre to the lagoon was tough. I could feel my right foot swelling and had to stop to loosen the laces. Typically my double knot had mangled up and it took me a little while to free it up. 

Time wasted. 

We turned the corner and then… bliss. 

I’d been looking forward to the turn for ten kilometres now and here it was. With the waves crashing into the sea wall and the wind on our backs, we nigh on floated down towards the West Pier. This was my favourite moment of the run so far. 

As we skipped along the seafront getting splashed by the raging sea to our right, I had a little recap as to why I was doing this. To take my mind off my sore foot and aching legs, I got thinking about my step dad Roj and how bravely he was coping with his chemotherapy and, around 11.20 on Sunday morning in the rain and wind, I shed a little tear for the old bugger. 

This wave of emotion carried me all the way past one pier and then the next until I could see the finish line down Madeira Drive. I picked up the pace a touch and crossed the line in 1hr 59mins 25secs.

Thanks to some amazingly generous friends, I’d raised over £1000 in less than a week 

I wasn’t a fan of running. 

Where are we running next?

CK